Page 138 of Burn the Wild

“Because I waited so long to leave.” My voice trembles. “Because I didn’t see.”

“People stay because they want to be loved, even when it hurts.” Dr. DiFeo puts down her pen. “It doesn’t matter if you left after the first time or the twelfth. It takes a lot of strength to break a tie, Reese. It takes a lot of self-love to choose yourself.”

Tears well in my eyes.

“Why do you think it’s your fault?” DiFeo asks, pulling my attention. “Why do you think you are in the wrong?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. I just do. Sometimes I feel so crazy.”

“Crazy. Who taught you that word?”

It comes automatically. “Gavin.”

I was crazy when I wanted medication. Crazy for wanting to write my own songs. Crazy when I needed a break.

She purses her lips. “Have you ever tried to leave him before?”

“Once.” Memory wells. I close my eyes and see Gavin. “The day of the shoot. I told him I was done, and then he…” I clasp my bangles.

“I see.” She makes a note.“There’s a lot to unpack here. You’re in the high stages of trauma, Reese.”

“No shit.” I cover my mouth. “Sorry.”

She smiles. “How do you feel where you are now versus where you were?”

My heartbeat skips. “I feel happy. I feel scared. I feel silly. I left everything behind. Who does that?”

“I think the fact that you’re scared and feel a bit silly is a great sign.” DiFeo nods. “Use this time to write. To know it’s not your fault.”

Warmth spreads through my chest. Maybe I knew that, maybe I didn’t, but it’s nice for someone to take my side.

DiFeo’s eyebrow lifts. “Write songs that you’d be proud to give the world, Reese. And be free.”

Dust spewing in the air, tires squealing, Ford shifts the old Chevy in gear. Arm draped over the steering wheel, he steers us out of the parking lot, onto the freeway.

“How was it?”

“Good, actually,” I tell him. “It’s justfeelsgood.”

Ifeel good. Happy. Lighthearted. Like the first step in a series of steps to get me somewhere else.

“We made some telehealth appointments. Twice a week for the next month.” I blow out a breath, stare out the window at the gray skies and acres of land. “And she gave me a low-dose prescription for an antidepressant.”

One of his hands, large and tan, settles on my thigh. Squeezes. “I’m proud of you, Birdie.”

I smile at him. “I’m proud of myself, too.”

He nods. “Look in the glovebox.”

I do.

Speechless, I stare. “What is this?”

“A present.” A crooked grin pulls at his mouth, all boyish and embarrassed. “For you.”

Awed, I lift it up the gold necklace. This time, a little cowboy boot hangs in the center of it.

“You went shopping,” I say, affixing it around my neck next to the other necklace. I pretend not to notice the way it hangs low. Close to my heart.

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